HELL'S KITCHEN
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Welcome to Poe's Rest where Halloween is a special day. A very special day.  And Dean Winchester is about to find out why.  This story was an entry in a Halloween Challenge.


Hell's Kitchen

By: Vanessa Sgroi

The shiny black '67 Impala growled its way up the main drag of Poe's Rest, Delaware—its two occupants sleepy-eyed, rumpled, and weary.

"Why don't we just stop here?" mumbled Sam Winchester.

"Here?" his brother made a hand gesture out the window, "C'mon, _look_ at this place." The entire main thoroughfare was generously, garishly decorated for Halloween. "I can keep going."

"No, you can't," Sam, exasperatedly growled, "I've been watching. You're so tired your eyes are practically crossing."

Dean shifted in the driver's seat, unwilling to admit the truth of Sam's statement. "I still have enough left in me to get us to the next town."

"Well, I don't! I'm tired. I'm stiff. I'm hungry. And I freakin' have to pee! So can we just stop already?"

"All right, Princess," smirked Dean, "don't get your tiara in a twist. We'll stop to eat at least." He goosed the gas pedal and sailed through a yellow light. A little further up the road, Dean spied a small diner with the unsettling name of The Black Caldron and turned into the parking lot. Like Main Street, The Black Caldron was elaborately decked out for the holiday.

Unfolding their lean, lanky bodies from the car, both men indulged in long, vertebrae-popping stretches before walking toward the door.

"What—no laptop?" commented Dean, noticing Sam was lacking his ever-present electronic companion.

"Nah. Too tired."

Sam made a quick trip to the restroom before they even approached the hostess. The unsmiling woman, who greatly resembled a stick figure, led them to a booth, dropped menus down on the table, and hurried away. When the sullen and equally gaunt waitress stalked over moments later, they both quickly ordered the special—hot open-faced turkey sandwiches; Dean's with extra mashed potatoes and gravy.

"Not very friendly around here, are they?" whispered Sam.

"Well, look at this place," Dean's gaze roamed around the diner, taking in the rather gruesome decorations, "They fit right in."

Sam nodded. "It is rather eerie in here. Notice how all the decorations are morbid and gross? Nothing cute or cartoony—even out on the street."

"I hate Halloween."

"Not my favorite day either. Though, Jess," Sam stopped and cleared his throat, feeling a small strum of pain vibrate across his heart, "Jess managed to make the two I spent with her kinda fun."

"I can remember a coupla nice ones when we were kids."

"Really? I thought you always hated it."

"Not always. The couple of times I took you trick-or-treating were fun."

"You took me trick-or-treating?"

"Yeah, you were four and five, I think. I dressed you up as a ghost one year and a mummy the next—wrapped you up in toilet paper. I used like four rolls. Dad was a little annoyed." A big grin lit Dean's face.

Sam's smile matched, then surpassed, his brother's. "I don't remember that."

"It was just before our life got . . . more intense."

"Did . . . uh . . . did Mom take _you_ trick-or-treating?"

Dean's smile dimmed. "Yeah, I'm sure she did. I vaguely remember a clown costume of some sort." He chuckled when Sam grimaced at the word "clown". It still amused him that Sam, a seasoned hunter of all things evil, was deathly afraid of clowns.

The waitress returned and placed their meals in front of them. She skulked away before either could ask for a refill on their coffee.

Sam picked up his fork and muttered, "Is it my imagination or does the waitress look even thinner than she did when she took our order?"

"I dunno," replied Dean, his mouth already full of mashed potatoes and gravy, "she's skinnier than that first lady."

Sam covertly peeked at the other customers as he began to eat. "You know, almost everyone else in here looks just like that. Like they're all sick or something. It's creepy."

His older brother did some peeking of his own. "You're right. I say we hurry up and get the hell outta here." He was just about to shovel in another bite when his eyes fell on a plastic-covered flyer taped to the wall of their booth. "Hey, Sammy, look at this. They're having a pie eating contest here tonight at six o'clock."

"So?"

"So . . . I think I should enter. First place wins $250 and a trophy."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "I thought we were gonna find a motel and, you know, actually get some SLEEP."

"We will. We will," wheedled Dean, "Look, it's almost one o'clock now. We can get a room, catch a few hours of sleep, and be back here by six." When Sam just stared at him, he continued, "It's $250! We could really use that money," he paused, "and there's a _trophy_!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "What're you gonna do with a trophy—display it on the dashboard?"

"No—but there's room in the trunk for it."

The younger man was surprised to see Dean's cheeks color a little at that statement. It dawned on him that his brother had probably never had much of an opportunity to experience the joy of winning a simple trophy—either athletically or academically—in his life. He relented with a crooked smile.

"Fine. Enter your pie eating contest."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam stared at his brother with equal parts awe and disgust. The pie eating contest at The Black Caldron was well underway. Dean was on his 5th piece of apple pie and showed no signs of slowing down. The other 12 contestants were right with him.

By the 8th piece, the number of contestants had dwindled to seven. When the 12th piece was placed before them, there was only Dean and a pudgy, balding man left. Halfway through that 12th piece of pie, the other man faltered, dropped his fork, and cried "uncle". A beaming Dean Winchester finished his piece before jumping up and pumping his arms over his head in victory.

Shaking his head, Sam stood. "Man, I don't know where you put all that."

"Hollow leg," the winner winked.

"Yeah, a hollow something," Sam returned his brother's smile. "I'm gonna hit the head while you collect your winnings."

Dean watched him walk away, his smile fading as he wondered why there was suddenly two of Sam. When the two split into four, Dean's smile disappeared completely. Seconds later, darkness closed in and he crashed to the floor.

When Sam exited the restroom several minutes later, he stopped dead, his jaw dropping in shock. Everyone in the diner was gone—including Dean.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Fierce throbbing in his head greeted Dean as he roused to consciousness. A small groan pressed past his lips as he pried his eyelids apart. He tried to move only to discover he was bound with coils of harsh rope. Worse, he was _naked_ and bound.

_What the hell?_

Squinting through a slightly smoky haze, Dean could see he was surrounded by a roomful of robe-cloaked people, their faces hidden by oversized hoods. The low hum of their continuous chanting filled the air.

Turning his aching head, he saw the pudgy guy who'd taken second place in the pie eating contest cowering, similarly naked and bound, on the floor next to him. The man's eyes were wide with terror.

Frustrated, Dean yelled, "Hey, what the hell's going on?" The hooded figures never paused in their chanting so he tried again. And again. Finally, after the 4th try, the chanting ground to a halt. As one, the crowd turned and focused on him.

"Silence!" called a figure near the front.

"Like hell! I want to know what's going on!"

A ham-sized fist connected with his mouth. He tried speaking again but was stopped by another fist that blackened his eye. A third strike bloodied his nose.

The disguised figure spoke again. "The fire is almost ready. Then we begin."

"Begin what?" Dean mumbled around his swollen, bloody lip.

"Our Feast of Sustainment and Restoration."

"So not the way to treat your honored guests for a feast." Dean snarked.

"Well . . . considering you ARE the feast . . ."

"I was afraid of that." Dean worked surreptitiously at his bindings.

The leader turned to the group and intoned, "It is time. Remember—their delicate parts are to be saved for Gaitah."

_Delicate parts? Ah, shit!_ The blood drained from Dean's face as their meaning sank in.

The camouflaged crowd descended, effortlessly plucking the pudgy man up off the floor. They carried him away.

"Hey, leave him alone. Leave him alone!" Dean yelled, struggling uselessly against his bonds as the other man's screams rent the air. The screams turned to inhuman howls of pain, and Dean squeezed his eyes closed. A few minutes later the screaming stopped and not long after, the smell of burning flesh invaded the hunter's nostrils. Dean's stomach cramped violently. He leaned over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground. He continued to heave until nothing was left.

"Your turn," A few of the group now stood before him. Instead of carrying him away, however; the leader, brandishing a wicked-looking knife, crouched down in front of Dean. "Smartass. I bet you're gonna taste real good." The man pressed the flat of the heated blade against Dean's stomach.

Dean writhed in agony, his back arching off the floor, as the blade burned into him, branded him. His breath caught and he froze when the blade was lifted and then lowered to hover over his manhood. The sharp edge had just made the slightest contact when a deep, rough voice called out.

"Stop! I am Gaitah's chosen one for this duty. You overstep your bounds."

A tall, cloaked man approached and stood before the man crouching near Dean. "Give me the knife," he growled.

"But it's my t. . ."

"GIVE ME THE KNIFE," the figure commanded menacingly.

The smaller man reluctantly turned over the blade. Weapon now in hand, the tall figure crouched and brought it near Dean's lower parts once more. Suddenly, the knife-wielding hand moved in one smooth blur and sliced.

Dean tensed and gasped expecting to feel excruciating pain. Instead he felt his rope bindings fall away as the well-honed knife parted the hemp, partially freeing him. As Dean worked quickly at the rope securing his ankles, he watched as the tall, cloaked figure pivoted and drove the knife into his first tormentor's shoulder. After taking out their apparent leader, Dean and his rescuer were able to take out the other four men easily.

"What now?" Dean panted.

"This way. Be very quiet."

Dean followed his rescuer into the next room. He tensed when he saw the cloaked crowd seated on the floor expecting them all to spring into action at their entrance. Instead, they continued to gorge themselves on the unfortunate man who'd been sacrificed before him.

The two men navigated the room and quickly ascended the stairs on the other side. They burst through the door at the top, spilling into the chilly night.

Dean shivered. "Listen, uh, whoever you are—thanks—"

His rescuer pushed back his hood.

"Sam! But that . . . that wasn't your voice."

"A little creative acting on my part."

"You . . . you held a knife to my . . ." Dean blushed.

Sam pulled off the hooded cloak. "Here, you might want this."

Grateful for any covering, Dean tugged it on, hissing when it skimmed over the burn on his stomach.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. What about _them_?"

"They didn't complete the restoration ritual. They'll be . . . gone . . . by morning."

"Even the ones who ate—" Dean couldn't finish.

"Yeah, even them."

"How'd you find me?"

"I'll tell you everything back at the motel." Suddenly, Sam chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"I bet you won't want pie anytime soon, huh?"

"Ahh, don't bet on that, Sammy. Don't bet on that."

_Fini_


End file.
